


take it from the top

by Anonymous



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Come Inflation, Comeplay, Dirty Talk, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, POV Second Person, Pregnancy Kink, no pregnancy though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 13:27:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22886254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The day starts out bad.First of all, your alarm doesn't go off, which means you’re already late to work when you wake up and have to fling yourself out of bed and speedrun getting ready, throw on some clothes and brush your teeth and run a brush through your hair and fuckin’ bolt out the door.Second of all, you miss the train.By the rule of thirds, then, the worst thing hits you just after lunch.
Relationships: Brian David Gilbert/Patrick Gill
Comments: 15
Kudos: 55
Collections: Anon Works





	take it from the top

**Author's Note:**

> i was going to cite the fic that inspired the worldbuilding for this fic but it has been deleted. rip
> 
> never written a/b/o before but i hope you enjoy :)

The day starts out bad.

First of all, your alarm doesn't go off, which means you’re already late to work when you wake up and have to fling yourself out of bed and speedrun getting ready, throw on some clothes and brush your teeth and run a brush through your hair and fuckin’ bolt out the door.

Second of all, you miss the train.

By the rule of thirds, then, the worst thing hits you just after lunch.

You forgot your meds.

Which, ordinarily: fine. If you skip your antidepressants, you get the brain zaps something awful. If you skip your anxiety meds, your stomach gets upset.

But if you skip your heat suppressors at _that time of the year_, well.

That’s a whole ‘nother story.

This realization sinks in just after lunch. You’re in the studio with Brian; you’re blocking shots and running bits of the script for the next _Unraveled_. Clayton’s not here, because he’s editing _Overboard_ and anyway this is more for writing, because you’re still teasing out some of the phrasing for the latter half of the episode. Brian’s prancing around, because he’s always prancing around, tossing his hair and rattling off specs about Bowser’s navy.

Brian’s attractive. This is an objective fact; this is something you’ve known since you first set eyes on him. But this is also something that stays out of your work. Something you push out of your mind, that you don’t focus on during the hours of roughly-nine-to-five-but-usually-later-on-both-sides. Which is why when you’re peering at him through the lens of the camera, finding the ideal framing for this goofy little song-and-dance he’s doing, that when it filters into your observation that you’re passively turned on just looking at him, all you can do is freeze and mutter _shit_.

Brian hears you, because of course he does, it’s not that big of a room, and he quits hopping around and cocks his head.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing,” you mumble, unconvincingly. Now that you’ve noticed it, you can feel the heat between your legs. It’s one-thirty in the afternoon. 

You are going to fucking die.

You don’t tell anyone you’re an omega. You just don’t. Really, it’s goddamn rude to pry into someone’s else’s pants situation, so it’s not relevant unless you’re about to bone down. And it’s not like there’s tells — well. It’s not like there’s tells unless you’re giving off heat pheromones like there’s no tomorrow. Which, give it an hour, you will be. And, god, it’s _rude_ to do that too, embarrassing as shit for everyone involved. Your last long-term relationship was with a beta, so it’s not even like you had any use for heats, really, ‘cause they didn’t get them, so you haven’t had one in a long fucking time.

Which means, all things considered, there’s not a single fucking way you’re going to make it out of here without embarrassing yourself.

“Pat?” Brian says, with a tone like he might’ve said it a few times already. “Dude, are you okay?”

“Yep! Just fine!” you say, strangled, because you have no fucking idea what else to do. Bolt to the bathroom and hide there for the next week? Crumple to the floor and cry? Walk out the door?

There’s a one in three chance that Brian will be able to tell what’s going on. From the way he’s looking at you, though, you’d place that bet much, much higher. He’s not leering; that’s good. You didn’t think he would. It’s more… concern. Maybe a little curiosity, but mostly concern, eyebrows drawn, head tilted.

“Pat,” he says, and it’s the serious-quiet tone that makes you freeze. “Do you need to go home?”

So he knows.

“I don’t know,” you babble, anxious, “I came in late and I don’t want to bail early because that’s a dick move and, and we have shit to do, and —”

“Patrick.”

You shut up.

He stays where he is, all the way across the room. He, in fact, maybe backs up a little, which is so fucking polite of him. “I don’t want to, uh, to get too personal,” he says, so very cautious, “but, uh. I think that, um. Extenuating circumstances would make the need to leave more than understandable.”

This is true. But there is absolutely nothing more horrific to you right now than the thought of walking past all your coworkers while you reek of needing to get laid to tell your boss you fucked up and forgot your suppressants and now you have to take the next week off to go fuck yourself quite goddamn literally.

You don’t know how to say this. Any of it. You think you’d like to maybe move into this room and never leave so you don’t have to deal with any of it. You’re sort of frozen, actually, in pure anxiety.

“Are you okay?” Brian says again, still extremely very far away across the room, voice so gentle.

“I haven’t — this hasn’t happened in —” You drag your hands over your face, back through your hair, furious and frustrated. “Fuck.”

Brian winces sympathetically. He’s one of the lucky ones, who doesn’t have to deal with this shit unless he has direct contact with an omega’s bodily fluids during their heat, which would trigger a sympathetic response — but it’s not like that’d happen. Not like any of it would happen. You’ve had a crush on him so badly that sometimes it feels like it’s going to claw out from the inside of your chest and the way it pairs in tandem with the need that’s beginning to curl inside you is completely fucking intolerable.

You have absolutely no fucking idea what to do.

“Do you even get time off for — uh. For this?" Brian asks, with the air of sudden concern, as though it’s just occurred to him.

And _shit_. You remember bitching about that page of the handbook with Simone, who went to bat at the union meetings to get that on the contract negotiations even though it doesn’t even affect her, but it hasn’t fucking gone through yet. You get time off, yeah. But only if you have a partner. Because good unpartnered omegas are supposed to take their heat suppressants. But if you miss it — if you do what exactly the fuck you’ve just done — that’s it, you’re done, you’re out for the week and that’s out of your sick days.

You manage to choke this information out to Brian, who looks upright horrified. As well he should, really. It’s archaic. Awful. Should’ve been written out years ago.

“I don’t know what to do,” you say, and your voice is shaky. “Can’t make up a partner, it’d have to be — have to be registered.”

“_Registered_,” Brian breathes.

You wave him over and he comes, careful, staying a very respectable distance away as you pull up the app you have hidden on the third page of a folder on the second page of your phone, the one with a black background and a silver omega symbol. You open it with a tap, sign in with your thumbprint, and there’s a list of options up the side of the page, white font on dark purple. The top of the list, bolded for you, because you’re single, says _Register a partner!_

“Oh,” Brian says. “I forgot about that.”

“Lucky you. For some reason there’s a whole lotta hoops for us,” you say, with a wan smile. The rest of the list is full of things like _Cycle Tracker_ and _Resources_ and other stuff you don’t give a shit about.

“I mean, no, like, I’ve got one of those too,” Brian says, fishing out his phone; his app is orange with a gold symbol, tucked away shyly into a folder as well. There’s a list on the front page for him too, with the top line _Register a partner!_ in bold white font against the orange background. “I just — my last partner was, uh. Like-finds-like. So we didn’t have to register or anything.”

“Convenient,” you murmur. “I’m supposed to even if I hook up with anyone of the same persuasion.”

“God, that’s fucking stupid,” Brian says.

“Guess it’s to prevent stupid fucking,” you quip, cooly. You’ve hurtled straight past anxiety into dissociation. Nothing feels quite real. “So. Guess I should go talk to Tara before every alpha in the office does a double-take when I walk past.”

Brian nods, pressing his lips together. “I mean,” he says slowly. Stops. Shakes his head. Sighs.

“No, go on,” you say softly.

“I’m just saying,” he posits, “we could register, no pressure to, uh, y’know, and then you get your week off and I get a week off and it’s all good for everyone. Like. If. If you wanted to, I mean. No pressure, I swear. About any of it.”

You hum thoughtfully, slide the menu on your screen back and forth with your thumb. You want to. Oh dear god do you want to. But you want it to be real.

But, judging by his hedging, his nervous talking-around… it doesn’t seem likely.

“Yeah, okay,” you say. “Hope Tara doesn’t think we made out in here.” You tap through to the form.

“I’m sure she’ll be able to put two and two together,” Brian assures you, and hands you his phone so you can fill out your personal information. “Gosh, you really have to fill out all this shit if you get with someone?”

“Mmhm,” you say distractedly, typing your name into the applicable field. _Gill, Patrick. Fourteenth August_. “Pain in the ass.” _Omega. Male. Thirty-one_. “Does a real fuckin’ effective job of preventing, uh, wanton hookups.” You roll your eyes as hard as you possibly can.

“Jesus,” Brian says, and hands back your phone. _Gilbert, Brian David. Twenty-ninth January. Alpha. Nonbinary. Twenty-five_.

“I didn’t know you were nonbinary,” you murmur thoughtlessly, and then choke on your words. Stutter quickly. “Sorry. That’s none of my business, probably —”

“Oh, no, it’s fine, it’s not a secret!” Brian says, waving your concern away with a literal wave. “It’s not a big deal, I’m, like, dude-adjacent, I use he/him, I’m just not a guy. That’s all.” He shrugs.

“That’s cool,” you say, like a dumbass. He smiles, though, and drops his phone into his pocket.

“C’mon, let’s go fake-date in front of our boss,” he says, and you follow him out of the room.

Simone’s head whips up as soon as the door opens, which — _oof_ — which means you _waited_ a long time. The two of you have fucked, so she’s more attuned to you, but it’s still, like, not a great sign. And the fact that you and Brian haven’t, like, swapped spit or anything means that your stupid fuckin’ pheremones (hah) (fucking pheromones) are still on the radar for any alpha to notice.

She mouths _what_ at you and you shake your head at her. You’ll text her later. Fuck, it would’ve been smarter to register with _her_, actually, especially since Brian’s got a deadline on _Unraveled_. Whatever. Ugh. Fuck. At least he’ll get a restful week off. God knows he needs it. The bags under his eyes look almost painful.

Tara, thank _fuck_, isn’t able to sense your personal brand of bullshit, but that does mean that you have to stutter through an explanation, choke out things like _forgot my meds_ and _registered with Brian_ and her eyebrows jump up. She looks from you to him; Brian looks completely composed, not a hair out of place, but you’d bet you look pretty fucked up, you can feel how your face is flushed, know you’ve been compulsively running your hands through your hair. In — fuck, probably a half-hour, you’ve gotta fucking get _home_, you’re gonna look wrecked, gonna _be_ wrecked, gonna go fucking cry in your bathtub or something with a dildo and a vibrator and wish this wasn’t your stupid fucking miserable life.

You call a ride, go outside with Brian. You rub your hand over your face. Your throat feels tight, like you’re gonna lose your shit right here and break down in front of Brian. You’ve always been _bad_ at heats. Never gotten to ride one out with a partner, always a good boy who takes his meds, so you can count on one hand the number of times it’s slipped through. There was the first one, which was so fucking miserable, you locked yourself in your dorm room when it came on and sat under the cold shower and had a panic attack; once or twice, while you were single, same as now. And now this.

“Are you gonna be alright?” Brian says quietly.

You sigh. “I’ll make it.” And then, because your defenses are down, because you’re a dumbass, you say, “Just, uh, y’know. Not a frequent occurrence, and kind of sucks.”

“I bet,” he says, looking at you with those wide hazel eyes. He’s so fucking beautiful. His hair is so long, now, fluffs out around his head like a lion’s mane. You want to get your hands in it. You want to kiss those soft lips of his, to hold his body against yours. You want his —

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Brian,” you say, and you don’t know what you’re going to follow it up with, but your voice wavers, and Brian’s head jerks towards you.

“Yeah?”

Fuck. Fuck! Goddammit. “Look,” you say. “Please say no if before, uh, before about ten AM today it wasn’t something you’d wanted, but, I mean, if you — if you wanted to, you could — I mean — I mean — we —” You look at him helplessly.

“Pat,” he breathes. “I’m gonna need you to be explicitly fucking clear, here. And don’t — don’t finish that sentence if _you_ didn’t have it on the table before today.”

“Brian,” you say, because that’s the bit, you trade names back and forth, “it’s been on the table for a lot longer than that.” He blinks, looking blindsided. You keep going, because at this point you’ve already talked yourself into the corner. “So. If that’s, uh. If that’s something that’s been of interest to you. Then. You should kiss me.”

Brian surges towards you and grabs your face and kisses you. It’s all enthusiasm, no sweet shy first kiss, just eager, shoving his tongue in your mouth and forcing a little whimper out of you, right here on the sidewalk.

When he pulls away his eyes are sparkling and his lips are shiny and red and he’s beaming and he says, “Patrick Gill, you have _no fucking idea_ how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

Dazed, you say, “I bet I fuckin’ do, ‘cause it’s been _forever_ for me.”

“Me too,” he says, and cups your face in his hand, infinitely tender.

You smile at him, overwhelmed-happy, and he kisses you again, before your phone goes off to inform you your ride is here. You pile into the car and hold his hand _tight;_ he squeezes back when you squeeze. His nails are painted a shimmery blue.

“I should tell my sister where I’ll be,” he mumbles. “You got an extra toothbrush?”

“I’m sure I do,” you assure him, heart racing at the thought of him spending a night with you. And you’ve got him for a _week_.

_Holy fucking shit_.

Brian’s face is flushed to match yours by the time you arrive at your apartment, but he’s still cautious, careful, keeps his distance until you get to your bedroom, and then he pulls you into a tight hug. You can feel him hard against your hip but he doesn’t push it, just holds you close for a long moment.

“We should probably have some adult conversation before we hop to,” you say into his hair.

“Yeah,” he says against your chest, and you feel him sigh. You stroke your fingers over his back and he fucking shivers.

“Have you ever — have you done this before?”

“No. I’ve never, uh, been with an omega.”

“Shit, really?” you say, pulling back to look at him. He shrugs, gives that little crooked smile of his.

“Just worked out that way, I guess.”

“So you’ve never been through a heat,” you clarify.

“Correct.”

“Oh _boy_,” you say. That shouldn’t thrill you the way it does, thinking of him helpless and urgent and desperate to drive into you — _fuck_. “Buckle up, baby boy.”

He laughs. “Yeah?”

“It’s a lot,” you say. “Hold up, that reminds me,” you say, and park yourself to sit at the edge of your bed. Brian sits down next to you, curls himself against your side, drapes his arm over your shoulders, so he’s touching just a whole goddamn lot of you at once. He watches as you open the app again. “We get _perks_.”

“Oh?”

It takes some poking around — not under _Resources_, it’s under _Cycle Tracker_, and you punch in today as the start date and a little menu pops up.

_Congratulations!  
You qualify for ONE (1) FREE HEAT KIT!  
Please select a delivery kit:  
\- ONE-TIME OFFER: First Heat  
\- Simple Kit  
\- Deluxe Kit  
\- Conception Pack_

“What the fuck,” says Brian.

“Perks,” you say, and tap the first option.

_SAME DAY DELIVERY!  
Includes:  
\- Meals  
\- Condoms  
\- Electrolyte beverages  
\- Bubble bath  
\- Pillows/blankets  
\- Etc.  
Everything you need for a romantic first time with your alpha!_

“I can’t decide if this is gross or what,” Brian says.

“Kinda gross, but look, anything that’s gonna deliver food and Gatorade to me has an A in my book,” you say. “And it’s free.”

“You don’t get this when you’re single either, do you.” It’s not a question. You shake your head anyway. “God, that’s such shit.”

“Yeah. Okay, so, here’s the plan,” you say, clicking through the preferences menu (_allergies: latex, strawberries, kiwis_) and hitting _submit_. “I’m gonna take my meds, like, my brain ones, hah, and then we’re gonna, I’unno, canoodle ‘till the delivery gets here, I guess, and then, uh. Y’know,” you say, and he smiles, pushes his face against your cheek.

“Whatever you want, baby.”

The heat between your legs throbs just at the words. Fuck, you _want_. But — well. You’ve got things you need to get in order first.

He trails after you to the kitchen, for lack of anything better to do, and you take your meds and then paw through your medicine cabinet for the other set of pills you need.

“What’s that,” he says, as you squint at the label. Oh, thank god, still good through next year.

“Keeps me from getting knocked up,” you say, blasé, and don’t miss how his breath hitches. You drop a pill under your tongue and chase it with a glass of water and arch your eyebrows at him as you swallow. He goes pink, and you smirk. “Catching up with you yet?”

“Little bit,” he says, catching you by the waist. He’s so careful still, deliberate about how he moves.

“Turn you on, thinking about that?” you say, and he gives a nervous sort of giggle.

“Pat, I think maybe anything would turn me on right now,” he confesses. “But, uh, yeah.”

“Me too,” you say, and kiss him.

He’s grinding against you and making really satisfying little grunts and moans when there’s a knock at your door. You groan against his mouth, and it comes out way, _way_ filthier of a sound than you mean for it to. You peel yourself away from him with effort, and get the door. There’s a delivery person with a large box, who gets you to sign and leaves pretty fuckin’ posthaste. You feel for them; they probably see some fucking weird shit on the regular, in that line of business. At least you’re still clothed.

You and Brian tear into the box and paw through it. Most of the size is due to the cloud-soft pillows and blankets packed inside, but there’s also ready-to-eat microwave-and-go meals and snacks and a case of Gatorade and a big ol’ box of latex-free condoms and some other toiletries and miscellany.

“Okay, societal weirdness aside, this fucking rules,” Brian says.

“Fuck yeah,” you agree, twisting the blanket through your hands. Brian looks at you with unexpected softness.

“Want me to put this stuff in the fridge and you can start to get things ready?” he says, and you nod. He’s so fucking beautiful that it takes your damn breath away. He kisses the corner of your mouth and lets you scoop up all the bedding and carry it off to your room. 

When Brian comes back into your room, you’ve incorporated the new pillows and blankets into your setup, and have fluffed everything up and arranged it for maximum comfort and you know this is _such_ fucking stereotypical behavior but Brian’s just smiling at you.

“May I join?” he says, and you nod and then you pause and he pauses too.

“Maybe we can, uh. Maybe less clothes?” you say, and you know you’re blushing but he blushes too and says _okay_ and he’s still smiling, still looks so fucking happy, and he steps out of his jeans and unbuttons his shirt and you wriggle out of your pants and wave him over and he comes eagerly.

(Hopefully not the only time he comes eagerly, hah.)

He straddles you, as you’re propped up on the pillows and kisses you, starts off sweet and slow but within hardly any time at all you’re both grabbing at each other and breathing hard, your hands on his ass and his hands in your hair. He’s wearing a thin white shirt and boxer briefs with pineapples on them. Adorable little shit.

You (selfishly, indulgently) cup his dick through his underwear and he moans — holy _shit_ — and rocks forward against your hand.

“I want you inside me,” you breathe, and he makes a wordless sound of want and drags you in, crushes his mouth against yours. You push your hands up his shirt and he rolls his hips against you, not even bothering to silence his moans and gasps of needy pleasure and fuck, _fuck_, you know as soon as he touches anything between your legs you’re gonna be fucking _gone_ so you savor this final taste of lucidity before you’re too desperate to think, to memorize this, this perfect beautiful moment of him against you.

And then you let him take your clothes off.

He sinks into you slow and steady and you dig your nails into his back and near fucking sob at the relief of having something inside you. You bear down around him just for sheer gratitude of being able to and the sound he makes is loud and low and thrums through you like electricity through a live wire.

He’s touching you everywhere he can, kissing you and dragging his hands over your body and pressing his mouth to your neck and jaw, biting and sucking and licking, and then back to your lips as he thrusts into you with earnest abandon. It’s like he can’t get enough of you, like he wants to do everything all at once, and you just roll with it, the honest force of it.

He takes you hard and fast and you’re already digging your heels into his back and making absolutely filthy-desperate sounds before you even start to feel his —

“Fuck, Pat, fuck, fuck, _fuck_, Pat Gill,” he chants, almost fucking whimpering as _ohdeargod_ as, as he gets more worked up you can feel the base of his cock start to swell and you slide your hands down to his ass and haul him fully into you, keep him there as he pants and bites at your neck. It feels so fucking good to be full of his cock, to be tight around him as he gasps into your neck. He rolls his hips in tight circles, grinding so deep inside you, and all you can do is take it, spread your legs wider and let him _take_ what he wants out of you.

You can’t say you’ve never thought about what it would be like to fuck Brian — you’ve thought about it, uh, quite a lot, in point of fact. But your imagination came nowhere close to the real thing, with his hot breath against your skin and his mouth on yours and on your neck and jaw and chest, with the way you feel so perfectly full with him inside you, and he works deft fingers on you until your climax hits you like a fucking train — you make a choked desperate sound and throw your head back and hook your leg around his and sob as he fucks you through it, unrelenting.

He doesn’t pull out and you don’t want him to. You’re hungry for him, desperate for him, and you rake your hands down his back and grab his ass, run your hands over his thighs — he’s working fucking _hard_ for this, for _you_, and it’s even better now that you’re sensitive from coming once already, and when he comes he bites down on your pec, fucking hard, sheathed deep inside you as he fills you with his come and you wrap your legs around him and try to take him deeper even though there’s nothing left to take, and you’re straight-up _surprised_ by a second orgasm so soon, as you curl off the bed and let him take you through it before his cock slips out of you, as some of his come spills out of you. You groan and drag your fingertips through it, dip them back inside you, and when you look at Brian he’s staring at you wide-eyed and breathless.

You tilt your head in a silent question.

“Patrick Gill,” he says, his voice low and soft, “I’m fucking _keeping_ you.”

You laugh and tug him in for a kiss. “I sure hoped you would.”

“Mm,” he says, into the side of your neck. He licks you under your ear, and you shiver. “God, you’re _gorgeous_. Wonder how many times I can get you to come. Wonder how many times _I_ can. You look so fucking good with my come dripping out of you, baby. Wanna keep you full of it all the time.” You moan, and feel him grin. “You like that? You want me to breed you, pretty boy? Stuff you with my come until you can’t take any more? I’ll make sure everyone knows you’re fucking _mine_.”

“Brian, _please_,” you whine, and he pushes three fingers into you, easy as anything.

“God, you’re so open and wet for me. So good, baby. You tell me when you’re ready for my cock again, okay?”

“Fucking — _whenever_, Brian, ‘s gonna take more than this to get me through. You could do anything to me, anything you fucking wanted, and I’d beg for it.”

Brian breathes a slow exhale. “That’s a lot of power you’re giving me, baby. A lot of trust.”

“Mhm,” is your coherent response to that. “I trust you. If ‘s bad, I’ll stop you. Promise. But — _nnh_ — I don’t think you could do anything to me that I wouldn’t want. Please. _Please_.”

“Okay, baby. Okay. I still need a few minutes, can we take a breather?”

He doesn’t wait for your reply before he flops down next to you and tugs you into his arms. Fuck, he’s got nice pecs, which you take the opportunity to bury your face against. He pets your hair, kisses your head, and you press your thighs together and try not to squirm with how much you want _more_. You can still feel his come between your legs; you want him to fill you with it.

You get your wish the second time. It’s like the first time was just a warm-up for this, for Brian fucking into you until his knot swells too thick for him to pull out, crammed inside you in a way that makes you whimper every time you shift and you can’t stop squirming on his cock because it feels so good to be stuck like this, right here with him inside you.

When he starts coming you can tell within about two seconds it’s gonna be a lot. Gonna be that sort of heat orgasm where his cock stays stuck inside you until he finishes, and that might not be for a good long while.

He keeps working at you with his hand even so, panting against your shoulder as his hips twitch and his come floods into you, hot and so _much_, dear god. You whine and grind down against him, try to take him deeper even though there’s no more of him to take, except for what’s filling you up deep inside, sating some of the desperate hunger burning through you.

When he’s done, you feel so stuffed full that you’re stunned that you can’t see it from the outside. You mention this to Brian, and he draws such a sharp breath you’re almost afraid you’ve done something wrong, except his hips jerk and the knot that was just starting to go down twitches again.

“Oh, you like it like that?” you murmur.

“I _need_ it like that,” he growls, and he must feel the way you twitch around him, because his nails dig into your hips. “Gonna fuck you so full, Patrick Gill. Gonna make it so not a soul can look at you without knowing you’re _mine_.”

And that’s it, you’re lost to it again, in brainless heady pleasure as he fucks you until he shudders and groans and starts coming again just barely before he sets you over the edge too, everything infinitely more _so much_ as you come yet again.

This time, you swear you can press your palms to your belly and feel the hot heavy weight of his come inside you, feel the faint swell of it under your hands, and when you put Brian’s hand there he moans, so fucking genuinely, like he’s overwhelmed.

“What if I get pregnant,” you say, dreamily, unfiltered.

“You fucking _better_,” Brian growls, and you groan, rolling your hips even as his knot starts to go down. “Wanna see you carrying my babies. Wanna see how fucking good you look, that big and swollen. Want you to go around stuffed with my come and then just keep getting bigger. Think you can do that? Carry my babies? How much do you want, Patrick? How much can you _take?”_

“As much as you’ll give me,” you say, half a sob, falling back into it again. “Christ, _please_.”

When you’re both too exhausted to keep going, Brian slides your thickest plug into you before you sit up, trapping his come inside you, keeping your belly swollen with it. You could be pregnant, like this, look like he knocked you up, like you’re already a few months along, and you can’t stop touching the swell of your belly. Neither can he, for that matter.

You can’t even imagine how the rest of this week is gonna go.

He plugs you up whenever he’s not inside you, and it feels _perfect_. You feel huge and unwieldy and better than you maybe ever have. He fucks you anywhere you’ll let him take you, any surface or wall, and by the end of it, you can’t believe how much he’s fucked into you. You can’t believe you can even hold this much inside your body.

“Imagine being this pregnant,” Brian whispers, as he presses on the plug between your legs, drawing a full-body shiver from you as it shifts what’s inside you.

“Wanna be this full forever,” you groan, sliding your hands down to support the base of your swollen belly, where you can feel the overwhelming fullness with his come inside you, the way arousal burns through you at — god, at everything. “Love being like this.”

He gets you to come just by playing with the plug, and you think maybe all you ever want to do is this. You know you’re out of your mind with hormones, that this isn’t truly you, but some baser part of you that you can’t control. Still, though, you spend the last day of your heat with his cock inside you, filling what feels like the last bit of space inside you when he comes. Brian touches and squeezes and caresses and shifts and moves and holds and when all you can do at the end of it is lay there and feel how full you are, he massages the heavy curve of your belly as you finally sink, exhausted, into the end of your heat.

It’s less good, then. You feel so stretched out and sticky and stuffed so huge that all you can do is stagger to the bathtub, filled to the brim with his come. But even with the overwhelm, it’s good to feel this _his_.

You settle on the floor of the tub, legs awkwardly akimbo, giving Brian space to work. Waiting for him to get situated, you close your eyes and tilt your head back, run your hands over the curve of your belly, trying to memorize it, everything about this, even the way your skin feels too tight right now, how overstimulated you are, but even that feels good in its way, because Brian did this to you. You roll your hips against nothing and moan, long and low. Brian presses on the base of the plug, angling it up and deeper into you just as you roll your hips down hard.

You _wail_, feet scrabbling at the floor of the bathtub, your hands over the fullness of what Brian’s put inside you, both never wanting it to go and desperately needing it out of you.

“Ready?” Brian says softly, when you stop shaking.

You nod, since it’s not like you’re going to be more ready than this, and hug yourself tight one more time, feeling the pressure inside yourself, the whole sum total of everything you’ve done with Brian, but no matter how much you want to hold on to it, it has to go; you can tell that soon it’s gonna pass into intolerable. So.

“Ready,” you say.

Brian pulls the plug out and you _scream_ as it all rushes out of you, eyes screwed shut and head wrenched back and back arching as you come harder than you ever have in your entire life.

When you come down from it, your whole body is shaking, and Brian’s got the shower head unhooked and is gently rinsing you off, carefully massaging your belly to get the last traces out of you. You shudder one last time and push to get it out, and groan as a weak spill of come leaks out of you. Brian murmurs praise — _good boy, keep doing that, you’re doing so well, sweetheart_ — and keeps washing you clean with every last wave, until finally, nothing comes out, and you know yourself to be empty.

Brian bathes you, washes your body and your hair, as you are too exhausted to move, and he half-carries you to bed.

You sleep.

You don’t wake up until the next day. You feel jittery and hungry and weird and wild in the post- heat. Brian, appearing somewhat relieved that you’re conscious, makes you breakfast and then makes you take a pregnancy test, both of which have fortuitous outcomes: tasty breakfast, negative test. You feel strange in your body, the way it’s returned with ease to the way it felt a week ago, like nothing ever happened, except for the soreness and brutal exhaustion from essentially fucking nonstop for a week — but admittedly, you’re grateful, too, that you won’t have to go in to work like that. But you can still press your hand to the flat of your belly and imagine what could have been.

For the first time in your life, you can’t wait for the next heat.

But for now, Brian’s done your laundry, because he is a saint, and you have a fresh clean cozy bed and a dire need to be cuddled and held with the same gentle tenderness Brian has shown ever since your heat broke.

He holds you as you curl into his arms, and strokes his fingers through your hair. He kisses the top of your head and you sigh and settle closer to him.

“If you fall asleep, I swear to god.”

“Nnh.”

“Oh my god. Pat.”

“Look. ‘S like. My body went through the whole thing. Like. The stupid — meds or whatever. They just — keep it from taking, I forget exactly how it works, but it fuckin’ knocks you the hell out after. And it’s not like your body knows what’s up, so it tries really hard to get pregnant anyway. Fuck, I know a part of me’s still in it, because part of me wishes I _was_.”

Brian holds you tighter. Kisses your head again. “We can have that conversation when we’ve been together a little longer than a week, yeah?”

“Shit, it feels like it was both yesterday and a thousand years ago.”

“Right?”

“‘S perfect. You’re perfect. Thank you.”

“Thank _you_, baby. I adore you.”

You sigh, eyes closed, and stretch out on your back. Brian’s hand slides up your shirt, to skate over your belly, and you tug your own shirt up a little further to give Brian permission.

“Can’t believe it’s just… gone, like that,” Brian says. “Friggin’ amazing.”

“I know, right? God, Brian, it felt so goddamn good. I mean, afterwards it kinda sucked, but only ‘cause it was so fuckin’ _much_ to feel. My whole body is sore but, like, in a good way? Like, god. I got to have that. With _you_, no less. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

“Me too,” Brian confesses, at a whisper.

“But not right now. I might die if anyone touches my junk right now. And not in the fun way.”

“Fair! Extremely fair. You okay with kisses?”

“Uh. Just one little one.”

Brian presses his lips to yours, just once, so softly. You tuck your head under his chin, after that, and sigh out a deep breath.

“I love you,” you say. “And I’m going back to sleep.”

Brian laughs, joyfully. “Okay! Okay, baby. I love you so much.”

You feel warm, so warm, love and joy coursing through you, as you close your eyes and let yourself drift off to sleep, amazed by what’s happened to you, and excited too, to return back to your normal life and slot this into your cache of favorite memories — and this time, you get to do all this with Brian at your side.

You couldn’t be happier.

**Author's Note:**

> please leave a kudos or a comment if you feel inspired to do so!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [talks in tongues and quiet sighs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22946875) by [segmentcalled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/segmentcalled/pseuds/segmentcalled)


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